Looking for Love at the DMV: a short story

"Man in the red jacket!" the throaty female voice shouted towards the long line of disgruntled faces in front of her. "You the last one to walk in. Next person behind you gonna need ta' wait ri' here till I call all the rest of y'all." She responded to the collective sigh of the group by shouting, "Y'all are gonna get served, you just gotta wait out here 'till there's room for yous." And with that, she turned around and went back into the warmth behind the clear glass door. I watched her step laboriously to her little stool, where she had probably been perched for the better part of the day. Her large, round backside threatened to squeeze through her government-issued, mud-colored pants. Her wooden billy club banged against her thigh with each shift of her step. (Why did she need a billy club?) She resumed talking to the equally uninterested employee beside her. I watched their bored mouths make words through the glass.

I shivered against the quick, autumn air. I turned back to my cell phone and sent another text, trying to pass the time until I would be lucky enough to grace the doorway of the DMV with my fellow DC residents. I heard a "What's up sweetie?" behind me, and decided to ignore it. It went away - back to its place at the corner, probably to try out the brilliant pick-up line on other unsuspecting females.

The voice was enough to make me glance around a bit, though. The DMV was in what appeared to be an old McDonald's building. (I had a sudden craving for a Big Mac. . . no a McFlurry. . . no a sausage McGriddle. . .) I was certainly the only white person as far as I could see, not an uncommon situation to be in in this part of Northeast. Without commenting too much on race, let me just say that when you're one of the only woman in a sea of bored, urban, male faces, it's a not a good idea to make eye contact, lest you mistakenly convey interest in a sexual relationship to commence immediately. I accidentally met a few gazes as my eyes swept my surroundings, and now I had lots of smiles and nods and "Mmm hmms" coming my way. Sigh. Great. Maybe at least this will be entertaining.

I checked my phone again for a new text. Nothing.

At last I was called in. To my surprise, I was met with a metal detector of airport-security-caliber right inside the door. I laid my purse on the conveyor belt and tried to walk through. BEEP BEEP BEEP. Right. The watch. Try again. BEEP BEEP BEEP. "Are you wearin' a belt, m'am?" I gave a gracious smile and thought, is this really necessary? Removal of belt. One more time. . . and . . . we're clear.

"Proceed to the desk right there wit' your papers, m'am." I proceeded to the desk, arms overflowing with a belt, a watch, a bulky winter jacket, a purse, and every paper that bears my name on god's green earth. (I've been sent home from the DMV one too many times for forgetting some ridiculous proof-of-something, and I wasn't taking any chances.)

"Can I help you?" All of their voices sounded the same. All had that same, hollow, exhausted air to them. It was as though their words barely had the energy to make it out, and so fell, splattered on the floor just inches from their launching point.

"Yes," I responded cheerfully, still trying to re-dress myself in public, which was slightly humiliating. (No one else seemed to have the belt problem.) "I recently moved from Maryland to DC and I need to get a new license and register my car so I can park in front of my house in Northwest." She looked at me as though she just couldn't deal with this chipper white girl right now. Perhaps my sentences were too complete? "I'm not sure what you need, but I brought my old license, my passport, social security card, birth certificate, lease, utility bill, vehicle title, registration, proof of ins -"

"Just gimme all'a it," she cut me off, hand outstretched, waiting for the pile of documents. She took one quick glance through them. "You ain't got DC insurance. Can't help you." She handed all the documents back to me and motioned for the next person in line to step forward.

"I'm sorry?" I said, more patiently than I felt. I had been putting this trip off for two months, racking up parking tickets in front of my own house rather than face the harsh human reality at the DMV. I wasn't going to go quietly. "When I called my insurance, they said I had to get my new license & registration from you guys before they could give me DC insurance. Surely you can help me." Lovely smile. Batted eyes.

"Nope." Helpful. Thanks.

"Well, couldn't I at least switch my license today, and come back another time to register my vehicle?"

Sigh. "Fine. Gimme your stuff again." Sigh. Gee, how magnanimous. She loudly snapped all of my documents down to a white, plastic clipboard along with a form to fill out, and motioned me to have a seat and wait for my number.

I squeezed my way through the rows of black, dented chairs, bumping into several knees. They didn't even look as I passed. All eyes were glued lazily to the tiny TV, hanging precipitously from a corner of the ceiling. The news reporter on the screen updated us on the campaigns for the upcoming elections. She was so far away, in her red pantsuit, crown of soft, brown hair, and mask of carefully-placed makeup. So far from this dirty place. Her voice won out over the impatient murmur and mumble bubbling up and falling again all around me.

I decided not to get upset that I'd have to come back a second time to register my car. At least I could get my new license today. It will not have been a total waste. I started to fill out the form with the standard, externally identifying answers about myself. The woman next to me cursed under her breath each time a new number was called that was not hers. She said aloud, to no one in particular, "How come they callin' C47 when they ain't even call B47 yet? Shit. They ain't even call any B's. This is whack. I don't think no one's payin' attention. I been waiting here all day. Shit." And on she went, gradually dying out as no one gave her the sympathy she was hoping for. But then the next number would appear, and it was not hers, and she would begin the tirade all over again.

My number was called just as I finished writing down all the other states in which I had previously held licenses, and all the other names I may have used. (PA, MD, and Cobb. . . I think that's it.) This new woman, who seemed not-so-new due to her uncanny similarities to each of the other employees I had already encountered, began processing my papers once again. As she was typing, I asked, "Can I still register to vote? I'm registered somewhere, but I don't know whether it's my old DC address, my Silver Spring address, or my Laurel address."

"It's too late to register for this election," she stated flatly, and continued punching things into her computer. "Where you been livin for the past four years since the last election?"

"Well, all those places," I admitted, a little hesitantly.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Wait. You had a DC license before?" she asked, responding to something that had come up on her screen.

"Oh, um, I guess so. Sorry. I couldn't remember if I got a new one when I moved here from Pennsylvania four years ago. I guess I did." She shook her head and furrowed her brow as she continued staring into her computer. She seemed very frustrated by this new information. There was a long pause where neither of us spoke, but the tension between us grew into a tangible thing. "Is that a problem?" I asked.

"Well yeah. It's a problem I gotta fix now."

Another pause.

"Well, is there anything I can do?" I was afraid this would keep me from getting even this small task done while I was here, although I couldn't imagine why.

"Yeah," she stated, finally looking right at me. "You can stop moving around so much."

Excuse me? I debated on whether to tell her that I had gotten divorced and that's why I've been moving around and that my heart has been broken more than once this year and I didn't need her judgemental bullshit simply because she didn't want to spend two extra minutes changing some information on her computer, but I decided not to waste my energy. It didn't matter.

"Ok, I'll get right on that," I said with a sugary smile.

After getting my new picture taken, I took my pile of documents, picked up my dignity off the floor, and left that old McDonald's building. As I walked past the long line still growing outside, I kept hearing her voice in my head. . . You can stop moving around so much. This whole system is really set up for permanence. I guess it's expected that we will all live in one place and keep one name and still know where we're registered to vote. Our lives shouldn't see that much upheaval in four years. God bless America. God bless stagnation. In this land of the free and the home of the bureaucracy, we are just not meant to change.